


Anti-kink: Sex pollen

by ash_carpenter



Series: Anti-kink [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/pseuds/ash_carpenter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final cross-posting of my anti-kink series! That's all the back-posting done, and next time I can post my brand new one!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sam just knows that getting Dean dosed up on sex pollen and reaping the benefits is an awesome idea.</p>
<p>Sam seems to have forgotten that his plans suck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anti-kink: Sex pollen

** Sex pollen **

 

As with most brilliant Winchester ideas, Sam stumbled onto it completely by accident.

It was during a case – and a fairly benign one at that. Essentially, several citizens of Staunton, Virginia had screwed themselves into a mild orgasm coma, from which they’d all awoken within forty-eight hours with no ill effects apart from slightly sore genitals. No other effects at all, really, except for goofy grins and annoyingly upbeat attitudes.

Dean had argued the case quite strongly – and with ill-disguised envy – that they should just leave the lucky bastards to it.

Sam had insisted that finding the perpetrator was of paramount importance, although by then his reasons weren’t all that noble.

In the public interest (well, in his own interest, and he was a member of the public...sort of), Sam confiscated the novice witch’s stash of “Macey’s Love Potion”. As Dean magnanimously let her live with some rousing, rambling speech peppered with Kiss lyrics, Sam not so much destroyed the vial as pocketed it for his own purposes.

As it turned out, he probably should have asked Macey the specifics of how it worked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The helpful little label on the bottle – in pink writing, decorated with small cutesy hearts – had seemed fairly simple.

_ Dissolve into your paramour’s beverage. When their eyes rest upon something they love – you, of course! – passion will abound!!!!!!!! [Please use responsibly and wear a pack of condoms.] _

What with every other person Dean loved being safely dead, Sam figured that there wasn’t much that could go wrong. Later, he would look back and shake his head at his own naive optimism, but at that point Little Sammy had been doing quite a bit of his thinking for him. Dean was pretty amorous anyway, but they’d been busy lately and he wasn’t getting any younger, so there hadn’t been much in the ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ department. A bit of Love Potion was clearly just what he needed – and definitely more like supernatural Viagra than Rohypnol, so Sam didn’t even need to feel guilty. Probably.

Regardless, Sam was pretty damned chipper as he liberally sprinkled Dean’s Starbucks Americano with the potion before presenting it to him in bed. Sam knew that, still half asleep, he wouldn’t yet have the presence of mind to be appropriately suspicious.

Dean made appreciative, fairly sexual noises over the coffee, prompting Sam to wonder impatiently how long the potion took to work. For all he knew, it could be hours. Trying to compose himself, he squeaked, “I’ll just be in the bathroom.”

Dean grunted, immersed in the coffee, then remembered something crucial and asked Sam’s retreating back, “Where did you leave my Ding Dongs?”

“In the Impala.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ten minutes (and a quick mental session designed to curb his desire, involving mating rugarus and wendigos) later, Sam emerged from the bathroom.

“Dean?” he questioned the empty room.

Curious, Sam crossed over to the window and twitched the drapes aside so that he could see into the parking lot. When his eyes found his brother, Sam’s jaw dropped open in embarrassed shock.

“Oh, no...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Yeah, come on, baby. You know you want it,” growled Dean as he stretched himself over the hood of the Impala, humping against the sleek metal. 

Sliding himself along and groaning at the friction, he proceeded to give her windshield wipers a good fondle while he pressed his cheek to the glass.

“You’re so smooth and shiny, and you’ve got the most beautiful grille I’ve ever seen,” schmoozed Dean, rocking his hips with increasing vigour. “You been teasing me, vibrating underneath me all the time, but you’re gonna give up the goods now, aren’t you, sweetheart...?”

Sam dashed out into the parking lot, thanking his lucky stars that it was so early and there were only two shocked bystanders gawping at his brother sexing up the car. Sprinting up, he grabbed Dean by the leg and hauled him back off the hood, trying not to notice his ecstatic groan as his boner slid along the metal.

“Dean!” he hissed. “Stop molesting the car!”

“She wants it,” purred Dean, dropping her a wink. “She’s been giving me those bedroom eyes...”

“Those are headlights.”

“Prettiest headlights I ever saw,” Dean assured the Impala, caressing her bumper.

“Stop that,” snapped Sam, slapping his hand away. “Oh, God, this is ridiculous! I can’t believe you love your car more than me.”

“Hmm, what?” asked Dean distractedly, his attention captured by the alluring glimpse of smooth leather he’d just caught through the windshield. 

“Come on, we’re going inside,” insisted Sam, trying to tug Dean back towards the motel. Now probably wasn’t the time to explain about the Love Potion. 

“Dude, stop cock-blocking me!” hissed Dean, speaking out of the side of his mouth, presumably so that the Impala couldn’t lip-read what he was saying. “Have you seen the junk in this girl’s trunk?” He gave an appreciative whistle.

Sam rolled his head heavenwards. “Yeah. In fact, I put at least half the junk in her trunk – which, by the way, is an actual _trunk_ , Dean. Why don’t you just come back to the room with me?”

“Sam, no offense, but I’m not gonna spend time with my geeky little brother when I’ve got a hot chick flashing her fenders at me.”

Sam narrowed his eyes as some offense was, in fact, taken.

Then he remembered that there was a small argument to be made that the entire situation was his own fault, and felt a little chagrined.

“Okay, well, you can’t just bang her here in the parking lot when there are people around, can you?”

Dean shrugged and nodded, smirking at the car. 

“That was a rhetorical question. Look, why don’t you wait until tonight, then take her for a nice romantic drive and park up somewhere?” persuaded Sam reasonably, trying not to think too deeply about the fact that he was making helpful suggestions as to how Dean could woo an inanimate object. Or that he was essentially pimping out their family home. He could only hope that the effects would wear off throughout the course of the day.

“I can’t wait that long!” wailed Dean, sidling inexorably closer to the car and cupping his crotch, which was probably aching violently.

Sam sighed and glanced at the Impala. He suddenly got the distinct impression that she was enjoying all the attention. Stupid smug car. He hadn’t forgotten the way that she’d totally cock-blocked him that one time by sliding down a hill and trying to dump him in a lake while he and Dean were getting it on. Well, now he could return the favour. 

“Sorry, Dean. You’ll just have to,” insisted Sam, snatching hold of his brother’s wrist and trying to drag him back towards the room.

“No!” protested Dean, squirming violently. “I need her! I love her!” 

Unreasonably irritated, Sam got Dean in a headlock.

Dean retaliated with an elbow to the solar plexus.

Winded, Sam released his hold just enough for Dean to twist away with a cry of triumph. He headed for the Impala in an awkward, hobbled run – his erection hadn’t shown any signs of abating – and threw himself at her trunk, growling something about tailpipes that Sam was _really_ glad he didn’t catch.

He took a moment to watch his older brother dry-humping their car like an over-eager – and highly confused – cocker spaniel, grunting and spewing out one bad dirty pun after another, and had to wonder exactly why he normally found Dean so attractive. 

Contemplating whether or not he should just leave Dean to it, let him come in his pants, and then tease him mercilessly forever, Sam suddenly noticed that one of the bystanders had that all too familiar ‘someone should call the cops’ look on his face. Sighing, he realised that he needed to get Dean out of there, stat. 

Of course, they only had one mode of transport. Fuck. 

Who, by the way, looked like she was enjoying getting frotted way too much, the bitch. Not that she particularly said or did anything – what with being a hunk of insensate metal, and all – but Sam could tell. 

Trying to make himself feel better by reasoning that the car had been the first thing Dean had seen once the potion had kicked in and that he still loved Sam best, then wondering when the hell he’d turned into such a needy and emotionally unstable nutcase, Sam sprinted back to the room to pick up their stuff.

Although he was in and out in under two minutes, the situation had worsened significantly by the time he returned. Dean’s pants were around his ankles and he’d actually mounted the trunk, holding onto the roof for leverage as he jackrabbited his hips, no doubt causing untold damage to the paintwork. Worse, one disgusted onlooker had pulled out his cell, and was evidently doing his civic duty and reporting the rather heinous case of public indecency.

Sam briefly considered trying to explain that Dean wasn’t himself and that he wasn’t really a filthy deviant. Then he remembered that when Dean _was_ himself, he was fucking his own brother. In the end, it seemed best not to mention it.

After throwing their duffles onto the backseat, he managed to drag Dean off the trunk, shuffle him over to the passenger door and manhandle him inside. Rather heroically, he didn’t even help himself to a grope of Dean’s bare ass or flushed cock.

As he peeled out of the parking lot, he glanced over to see that Dean was enthusiastically humping the seat and sighed. Unless he wanted to risk a crash by trying to physically restrain Dean for the next several hours while he tried to put some distance between them and the scene of their most recent crime, he was just going to have to let him get on with it.

Five hours and two state lines later, Dean finally fell into an exhausted fuck coma in several puddles of his own jizz, face mashed against the seat (which he had until recently been passionately making out with, causing Sam to go into a jealous sulk while he plotted inventive ways to turn the Impala into scrap metal). He was going to be so angry about the various bodily fluids he’d spilled onto the leather. 

Sam decided not to tell him about the spunk in the glove box. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not surprisingly, Sam decided that any kind of mystically enhanced aphrodisiac was just a terrible idea. Not only had Dean bitched almost constantly for the entire week during which he’d been discovering his own dried spooge in various unexpected places in his beloved baby (the toy soldier was never going to recover from the trauma), but relations between Sam and the Impala had been frosty at best.

(And yes, he was quite well aware that it was probably all in his own head, but the fact remained that he’d been slamming her doors a little hard and had mounted the curb once or twice, and in retaliation she’d blown a tire, broken down twice, and backfired every time he even tried to make a grab for Dean’s crotch while they were driving.)

Perhaps also unsurprisingly, the moment that Sam decided to give it all up as a bad job, they both immediately got hit with a massive dose of sex pollen on what was supposed to be a routine ghost hunt. 

In fairness, the likelihood of literally stumbling over a sex-mad imp who’d been growing a crop of incubus venom-infused geraniums on a dead farmer’s back forty in south-western Iowa was pretty remote. 

Still, they managed it. 

Squawking in indignation as Dean inadvertently kicked over his camping stove, he leaped to his feet in a fit of pique and threw a double-handful of potent yellow pollen at them, before disappearing back into the hole to his lair. 

At first, after the initial coughing and spluttering died down, they were just highly confused. Of course, at that point, they didn’t realise what type of pollen they were dealing with. 

“Did that midget just throw dirt at us?”

They found the farmer’s old baby teeth in a desk drawer in the farmhouse and were about to lay the guy to rest before anything seemed amiss. Then Dean popped a boner. True, it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten horny on a hunt, but he wasn’t usually jiggling bits of dead dude in his palm at the time. 

Dean managed to ignore his own arousal right up to the point that he spotted Sam’s straining against his button fly; then, he promptly tripped over his own feet and sprawled on the ground, sending the teeth bouncing and skittering over the floor like he was casting runes.

“Fuck!”

“Yes, please,” muttered Sam, flushing when he realised that he’d spoken out loud. Dean just looked so...appetising, spread-eagled on the floor like a sacrificial offering. 

“Sam, now is not the time,” asserted Dean, although he ruined it somewhat by thrusting obscenely against the ground and looking over his shoulder with hooded eyes and an expression that was less ‘come hither’ than ‘come sit on my face’. 

Before he knew it, Sam found himself helplessly draping his body over Dean’s, hips already moving of their own accord. Gun tumbling forgotten to the floor, he reached shaking hands between them and started tugging frantically at their jeans while they traded desperate kisses over Dean’s shoulder.

“We should stop,” panted Dean against Sam’s lips.

“Yeah,” agreed Sam as he pulled Dean’s underwear down over the swell of his ass. “It’s dangerous.”

“Right,” said Dean, pushing his butt back towards Sam’s crotch. “We should wait till after the hunt.”

“Agreed,” nodded Sam, finally pulling his cock free of his jeans and rubbing the head up against Dean’s entrance. “Let’s stop then.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean spread his legs as much as he could and positioned his hips just right for Sam to sink deep inside him, neither of them even noticing the lack of lube. They both groaned in relief.

Sam was still pounding hard into his brother when the farmer’s spirit showed up, throwing bits of furniture around, threatening to tear them apart and generally making a nuisance of himself. After a minute or two, pissed that no-one seemed to be paying him any attention, he started throwing things _at_ the horny couple, and Dean growled in annoyance.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake... Distract him with the rocksalt and I’ll burn the teeth,” ordered Dean.

“On it,” replied Sam, hand scrabbling on the floor for his gun while he attempted the complicated manoeuvre of continuing to fuck Dean as he crawled across the floor.

Dean felt the recoil through his own body as Sam fired and gasped out an expletive, wondering why they didn’t do this more often. Aside from the obvious drawback of an exponentially increased likelihood of grave injury or death, naturally. He started gathering up the teeth, struggling to concentrate as Sam nailed his prostate and stars exploded all across his vision.   

“Dude, where’s the accelerant?”

“Hngh? Oh. In the bag.”

They roll-hump-shunt-bounced their way over to their bag, still joined, and a surprisingly sturdy stool crashed into them, instantly raising an egg-shaped lump on Dean’s head.

“HEY! God, dead people are such bitches,” complained Dean, whining when he realised that he was going to need to release his grip on his dick in order to get the teeth burned. 

“Hurry up,” said Sam helpfully, eyes riveted on where he was disappearing inside Dean’s body. 

Dean wasn’t entirely sure whether Sam was referring to the hunt or to having an orgasm, since he seemed like he was about ten seconds away from blowing his own load. Either way, it was sound advice, and Dean soaked the little pile of teeth with the fluid and set it alight, immediately slipping a hand back between his legs.

They both came, together, just as the spirit let out a furious – and perhaps ever so slightly relieved – roar, and exploded into flame.

Sam collapsed on top of Dean, both of them breathing hard. 

“So... That wasn’t normal. Even for us.”

“Yeah. I don’t think that was dirt.”

“Fuckin’ midgets.”

“I also don’t think it was a midget.”

“My dick’s still hard.”

“Mine too. Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Sam ran a hand suggestively through Dean’s hair. “Fuck?”

“Fuck,” nodded Dean.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nineteen hours later, Dean summoned up the energy to miserably roll onto his side on their soaked, reeking sheets, reaching for one of the half-gallon bottles of water they’d stashed on the floor.

“Sex pollen sucks,” he croaked feebly. 

Sam grunted a response, arm flung over his sweating forehead. His sore, enflamed cock was flushed and engorged, standing relentlessly to attention.

They were exhausted, dehydrated, bruised, aching all over, and their genitals, throats and asses felt like tenderised meat. Sweat and spit and come were _everywhere_ and Dean’s memory foam mattress had become a pathetic, lumpy little confusion of squashed padding.

It probably didn’t _want_ to remember the indignities it had been subjected to.

They’d managed to finally stumble their way back into the bunker several hours previously, having taken a record amount of time to travel the two hundred miles from the closest corner of Iowa due to fuck breaks. Very frequent fuck breaks, some of which they’d barely managed to pull the car off the highway for. 

Thankfully (depending on whether you were a Winchester and had an extremely warped perception of what constituted good luck), the only cop that had pulled them over had been a sick bastard more interested in watching them than hauling their asses off to jail.

“Water?” asked Dean, leaning into Sam’s space.

“Ugh, you stink,” accused Sam.

“You’re not exactly roses and rainbows yourself, bitch,” snapped Dean in return. They’d tried to shower, but it had turned into another (highly dangerous) sex marathon that had left them just about as dirty as when they’d started.

“You’re so gross right now. I can’t believe I still wanna fuck you.”

“I know, it’s disgusting.” Dean ran a hand over his face, then glared down at his persistently perky erection. “When do you think it’s gonna stop?”

“Can’t tell. It might kill us first.”

“Whichever, I hope it does it soon. I think I’d rather die than screw you again right now.”

“Gee, thanks. I think it’s your sweet-talking that turns me on the most...”

Dean groaned as he felt the irresistible lust rising in him once again. Although there was nothing he wanted to do less than go another round with Sam, the pollen had a stranglehold on his hormones. He was physically incapable of resisting.

Sam cursed as Dean rolled on top of him, although he felt the answering need in his own body. 

“I would literally rather be doing _anything_ else right now,” bitched Sam as Dean slid into his puffy, abraded hole on countless previous loads of come. 

“If we live through this, I’m not gonna fuck you for weeks. Possibly months,” said Dean as he began to thrust, every single muscle in his body protesting the motion. 

“If you _ever_ fuck me again, it’ll be too damned soon,” hissed Sam, teeth gritted. 

“I can’t believe we ever did this for fun,” sighed Dean, turning Sam’s face to the side so that he didn’t have to see his stupid, bitchy, scrunched-up expression. 

Sam didn’t mind too much; he certainly didn’t want to kiss or anything gross like that. Dean tasted, quite literally, like ass. 

“Can you just not touch me?” asked Sam irritably.

“How the fuck am I supposed to screw you if we’re not touching? God, you’re annoying,” snapped Dean with an eye-roll, pumping his hips mechanically.

“You suck,” retorted Sam moodily, wincing as he wrapped a hand around his sore, chafed dick. “Jesus, take some of your own weight, will you? You’re in my space, Dean!”

“Stay on your side of the car, Dean!” mimicked Dean in a high falsetto, remembering all the stupid arguments they’d had cooped up in the Impala when they were kids, hot and bored and at the end of their tethers. He poked Sam in the arm.

“Hey! God, you are SUCH an asshole!” yelled Sam in outrage, clipping Dean round the back of the head.

Dean poked him again, his rhythm not even faltering.

Sam gave him a purple nurple – and not the fruity drink kind.

Dean retaliated with a poke.

Sam glared and gave him a wet willie.

Another calm answering poke from Dean.

Sam tried a Chinese burn next.

Poke.

“I hate you!” exploded Sam.

At Dean’s infuriating chuckle, Sam launched a full-on attack. The ensuing slap-fight got a bit out of hand for two people joined at the groin, and they tumbled off the bed into a very painful heap, Dean still senselessly fucking into Sam from upside down and somehow knocking both of their heads against the bed frame on every thrust. 

“Ow. Ow.”

“Truce?”

“Fine. Just... Don’t poke me.”

“Poke,” said Dean as he pistoned into Sam’s ass. “Poke, poke, poke.”

Even Dean thought he deserved the resultant punch on the nose, and decided to go against every big brother instinct and actually honour the truce. He even helped Sam back onto the bed in between thrusts.

Grudgingly, they fucked their way to yet another dry and entirely joyless climax, springing apart to make the most of the few minutes’ respite they had before the whole sorry cycle started all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the effect of the pollen subsided after twenty-four hours, both of them practically wept with relief as their dicks finally softened.

Sam rolled off the bed and made his way towards his own room at a slow, pathetic crawl. Exhaustion overwhelmed him halfway down the corridor and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Poor Kevin got quite the eyeful as he headed to the bathroom the next morning. Then again, it didn’t seem all that troubling in comparison to the traumatising sounds that had been issuing from Dean’s room the night before.

There was not enough therapy in the world...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, their limps all but gone, Sam and Dean could finally stand to be in the same room together. That room happened to be the kitchen.

Sam accidentally dropped a pack of pasta on the floor, and as he bent to retrieve it Dean couldn’t help but notice what a damned fine ass he had. He let out a low whistle.

Grinning, Sam gave a little wiggle before straightening up. When Dean pressed up against his back, he turned his face back for a lingering kiss. He soon felt a hand sliding down his stomach towards his crotch.

“Seriously? I thought you, like, never wanted to touch me again.”

“Maybe I’ve been hit with sex pollen again.”

“Maybe you’re a horny bastard.”

Dean scraped his fingers over Sam’s growing erection. He knew it was still tender, like his own, so he was gentle, kissing softly behind Sam’s ear. “Maybe I’m not the only one.”

Sam turned in Dean’s arms and they made out for a while, their movements leisurely and unhurried until Dean eventually bent Sam over the nearest counter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“AAAARGH! What the hell, guys?!”

“Kevin! Uh... We...erm...the...the sex pollen! Yeah. It hasn’t worn off like we thought.”

“What? Oh, right. Yeah. That’s why we’re doing...this. Obviously. Not because we want to, because we totally don’t. Gross.”

“So, we’ll just get out of your hair and we can all forget this ever happened,” said Dean sheepishly, although his hips didn’t seem particularly connected to his brain and carried on surreptitiously pumping. 

Kevin shook his head, muttering, and stormed out of the kitchen, pining for the days when he had been a captive and only had to deal with demons and the constant fear for his life. Retreating towards the sanctuary of his room, he yelled at the Winchesters over his shoulder, “I wanna go back to Crowley!”

Dean shrugged and resumed fucking Sam. “What’s his problem?”

“Dunno. The kitchen incest, maybe?”

“Prude.”

 

THE END


End file.
